After

We waited ten years. I wish that I could say

the slaughter at the ending was more sweet

for all that time. It wasn't. Oh it may

have been ambrosial for the kings, but for the

others, the low ones, born to feed the gods

in battle, strong backed men who manned

the oars of the black ships, whom war's bleak odds

disfavored and who die alone, unmourned,

there was just the bitter taste of blood

the wild keening song of slashing blades.

Know this: for one long moment it was good

to stride wide streets triumphant and to flay

our enemies until they were just meat

carved for the hungry gods, who swallow lives

like water on some distant mountain peak

where vultures perch and raptors swoop and dive.

And when our enemies were all dead, I joined

the riot, took a woman by the hair.

She cried and fought and writhed against my groin.

I had her in the darkness and the fire.

And that, friends, was my war. I died that night

although I lived to row my way back home.

I still think of her eyes, the searing fright

that pierced me as I lay upon her bones.

When I was done, her blood poured out like wine.

I watched the living light flow from her eyes.

I dream her now, a ghost built of my sin.

She lives. At night, my sleep burns with her cries.

Ten years we waited; one night we made death

that rots my  insides still. I hate this earth.